Bedside Manner

Kiarra Kai, Laney Grey, and Jessie Saint sit in Laney's apartment after their bedside manners class. The TV glows blue against tired faces. Kiarra tugs at the collar of her scrubs. "I'm going to fail," she says. "Patients want someone warm. I'm ice." Laney and Jessie trade a look. They offer to be patients. Anything to shake the doubt out of their friend. First round Kiarra stays stiff. "Pulse. Respirations. Any questions?" She sounds like a robot reciting protocol. The other two won't let her quit. "Flirt a little," Jessie says. "That's you when you relax." So Kiarra turns on the switch and comes out swinging. "Your heart's racing," she purrs, sliding her fingers lower on Jessie's wrist than any textbook allows. The joke lands somewhere between dirty and dangerous. Laney catches the shift first. Heat crawls up her neck. She plays along, unbuttoning her top so Kiarra can listen to a heartbeat that isn't anywhere near her chest. Jessie watches the two of them, breathing quick and shallow. Soon everyone stops pretending there's a stethoscope between them. Hands push, pull, slip under waistbands, and fabric hits the floor. Kiarra takes a breast in each palm, thumbs circling stiff nipples. Laney arches, breath catching. Jessie kneels between Kiarra's thighs, mouth hot against smooth skin before she spreads her wider. Fingers trace every slick fold, pressure testing what makes which girl moan loudest. They trade positions fast—someone on their back, someone above, someone watching and touching at once. Tongues flick. Teeth graze. One slips two fingers deep while another licks across a swollen clit. No angle stays unexplored. Kiarra finally breathes again, tension cracking open, pulse steady only when she's coming hard against someone's mouth.